incense were the stench of unwashed tripe and the powerful tang of urine. Flies buzzed thick in the air. The bowls on the head must be an Emesene particularity, but everything else could not be more normal: the aftermath of sacrifice, the imperium-wide mundanities of conventional piety.
A silentarius took charge of them at the foot of the stairs. After the bright sunlight, the interior of the temple was dark, cavernous. It stretched away, echoing into infinity.
In the gloom, a line of pinprick lights. As Ballista's eyes adjusted, these resolved themselves into a row of ornate candlesticks dividing the great room, dividing the sacred from the profane. In the middle of the row, on its small, portable altar, the imperial fire burned; beyond them, the golden statue of an eagle. It stood confident on its wide-spread legs. The many little lights slid over its mighty, outstretched wings, over the snake writhing in its cruel beak.
Beyond the eagle, seemingly hanging in the air, was the imperial throne. Quietus sat in it, as still as a statue. He was dressed all in purple and gold; a voluminous tunic and a tall tiara; innumerable jewels. His painted face was immobile.
And beyond Quietus, looming over everything, was the god himself. Elagabalus, the great black stone that had fallen from the heavens, towered up towards the shadowy ceiling. Impossibly dense, it drew what light there was into itself. Only the occasional little rill of light splashed across the god, animating the mysterious markings in the depths beneath his smooth, dark surface.
Neither emperor nor god took any notice of the newcomers. As Ballista and his escort rose from their proskynesis, the silentarius ushered them off to one side. There they waited.
There was a sudden clash of cymbals. From somewhere, the music of flutes and pipes: high, twisting, intricate. Sampsigeramus, the priest-king of Emesa, danced into view. Apart from his necklaces and the many bangles on his wrists and ankles, he was naked. His body was thin, almost emaciated, the veins unnaturally prominent. Palms up, he danced before the emperor and the deity. To Ballista, there could not have been a more stomach-turning picture of eastern servility and effeminacy.
A high, shrill cry, and the act of worship was completed. Sampsigeramus went and sat on a low chair by Quietus. The emperor's non-entity cousin, Cornelius Macer — now the holder of three high government posts — was on the other side.
'Bring in the atheist,' said Quietus.
The Praetorian Prefect himself, Rutilus, brought in the prisoner. It was the tall, severe-looking senator Astyrius. They performed proskynesis. Quietus looked at the prisoner. The silence lengthened.
Astyrius was dressed in Greek himation and tunic, rather than his senatorial toga. He kept his hands clasped in front, eyes modestly downcast. Only a tiny tremor in his legs betrayed the doubts and terrors he must be feeling.
'Tell me' — Quietus's voice was light, conversational — 'have you been wondering where your pretty slave boy Epaphroditus has got to?'
Astyrius did not answer.
'No! Really, not at all?' Quietus raised his painted eyebrows. 'No concerns for his wellbeing? Not even considering the secrets the two of you share?'
Astyrius opened his mouth, but words failed him.
'Well, let me tell you anyway.' Quietus was enjoying this. 'At the moment, it must be said, he is probably none too comfortable. He is in one of the deepest dungeons under the palace. Although that is unlikely to be his main concern. Because your young friend, or should I say brother, is riding the equuleus. Have you ever seen the wooden horse in action? It is most ingenious. It must be agony for your pretty boy as the pulleys force his limbs apart.'
Astyrius made a small choking sound, then controlled himself.
'Not that he is all that pretty any more.' Quietus laughed. 'In fact, he is rather repulsive. You would hardly recognize him.'
The emperor stopped talking and peered closely at Astyrius.
'I am not sure what it is about your physiognomy, but I have never liked the look of you. Never trusted you. So I had the frumentarii lift your little boyfriend Epaphroditus from the baths. We hung him up — by one hand actually, much more painful — and while beating him — just the usual rods, thongs, whips — asked him some questions about you. Do you know, he would not say anything. You would have been very proud of him.'
Astyrius had mastered the trembling in his legs.
'And then the strangest thing happened,' Quietus continued. 'We got the claws to work on him. It really was terrible the way they were stripping the skin from his sides. But as he still refused to incriminate you, I suggested the torturers went to work on other bits of him: stomach and thighs, the soles of his feet, his pretty cheeks and forehead. And that was when he cried out: 'Even murderers are not treated like this, only us Christians.''
Quietus smiled at Astyrius. 'Well, you can imagine how that encouraged us. We pressed on with a will. When I was at Ephesus, I discovered the pleasures of interrogating Christians. I even offered your little slave boy his freedom if he would admit you were a Christian. The impudent little cinaedus replied, 'I have been freed by Christ.' So once again you Christians, not content with denying the gods, stand convicted of attempting to undermine all property rights here on earth.'
'I am a Christian,' Astyrius said.
'Is it true you have sex with your sisters?'
'I adore Christ. I detest the daemons. Do what you will. I am a Christian.'
'And eat specially fattened babies?'
Astyrius squared his shoulders. 'I am a Christian. It is better to die than to worship stones.'
'You are about to find out if that is true.' Quietus signalled to the Praetorian Prefect.
Rutilus pushed Astyrius to his knees. The Christian did not struggle, but he called out, his voice powerful, 'You have condemned me, but God will condemn you. You will fall as the stars of heaven are swept down to earth by the dragon's tail.'
Rutilus drew his sword.
Astyrius leant forward, offering his neck for the blow. 'The devil goes about like a roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour.'
Rutilus raised the sword.
'It is for you, Christ, that I suffer this!'
The sword fell. It was a neat stroke.
Astyrius's head fell heavily, wetly, to the floor. It rolled an uneven two or three turns towards the row of lit candles. For a time his trunk remained, four distinct jets of blood pumping out, splashing on the marble floor. The flow diminished, and the body collapsed sideways.
In the dark silence, Quietus spoke. 'With treachery all around me, only misfortune has remained faithful to me — misfortune, my doomed family and my Emesene friend Sampsigeramus.' He ruffled the priest-king's hair, and relapsed into silent introspection.
'Dominus?' Eventually it was Rutilus who dared try to break into the emperor's thoughts.
Quietus continued to stare at the decapitated corpse. 'Afterwards, one always regrets having been so benevolent.' He spoke more to himself than anyone else.
'Dominus?'
Quietus came back from his private world of sanguinary regrets. He snapped out orders. 'Get that thing out of here. We have news that Odenathus is marching against us. It matters little in the long run. Pomponius Bassus will soon appear at his rear. But until then we must take thought for our safety. I am advised I need officers experienced in siege works. The barbarian Ballista is reappointed as Praetorian co-prefect. His colleague Rutilus will command the west and north walls, the Prefect of Cavalry Castricius the east and south. Ballista's will be the overall plan for the defence of Emesa. The barbarian had better do a better job than at Arete. His wife and sons will remain in gaol. As the first Palmyrene is seen on the walls, they will die.'
The Tower of Desolation of Emesa was more an observation post than a defensive work. Its circular battlements were only a few paces across. Its interior was entirely taken up with the twisting stone staircase. The tall tower looked out south-east: five miles of cultivated land, then the measureless high desert, stone-strewn, baked by the sun, infinitely harsh. That might account for its name.
